Tiger Men

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Mummy’s in heaven now, dear,’ Iris would say as she stroked his head soothingly, ‘Mummy’s with the angels,’ and Rupert would wail all the louder.

  The sight and the sound put an unbearable strain on Reginald’s already frayed nerves and he did all he could to avoid his son’s presence, even having his meals delivered to his study and leaving Rupert to dine in the kitchen with the servants.

  Rupert, either through a sense of abandonment or perhaps in an attempt to share his grief with a fellow sufferer made the mistake of appealing to his father. Late one night, dressed in his pyjamas, he visited Reginald’s bedroom.

  Reginald, who had been fast asleep, was surprised to find himself awakened by someone climbing into his bed.

  ‘Daddy,’ Rupert said tearfully, and he started to snuggle up against his father, reaching out his man’s arms for a cuddle, ‘Daddy, Daddy –’

  It was more than Reginald could bear. He sprang from the bed and switched on the light. ‘Get up,’ he snarled. ‘Get up this instant.’

  Rupert scrambled out of the bed and stood there, literally shaking with fear, his head quivering and his hands flapping as they always did when he was distressed.

  Fighting down the urge to yell, Reginald tried his hardest to reason with his son, to make some form of intelligent connection. ‘You must listen to me, Rupert,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re a man now, do you understand? You must pull yourself together and you must act like a man. Do you understand me?’

  Rupert looked down at the floor, his head continuing to quiver, his hands continuing to shake. ‘Yes, Daddy,’ he said.

  Reginald’s nerves suddenly snapped. ‘I am not Daddy,’ he yelled, ‘I have not been Daddy since you were eight years old! I am Father! Do you understand? I am Father at all times. Say it, boy. Say it.’

  ‘You are Father, you are Father.’ Face twitching, limbs jerking: the whole of Rupert’s body was a quivering mess.

  ‘Get out! Get out – do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes Father, yes Father.’ He raced clumsily for the door.

  The situation grew even more unbearable for Reginald after that night. Rupert developed facial twitches he’d never had, his hand-flapping became more pronounced than ever, and he would make little whimpering noises that drove Reginald to distraction. Was the boy trying to impose guilt upon him for having yelled as he had? Was he to be held responsible for the fact that his son’s condition appeared to have worsened? Reginald refused to accept blame and felt neither guilt nor remorse, but now more than ever he could not bear Rupert’s presence. Without the protective buffer of his wife, he could no longer live under the same roof as his son.

  Less than a month after Evelyn’s death, much to the shock of the household staff, Reginald had his son committed to the Hospital for the Insane in New Norfolk.

  ‘But I’m willing to look after him, sir,’ Iris Watson insisted when he announced his intention, ‘and Clive also is happy to take on the responsibility. Between the two of us we can manage.’

  ‘A very generous offer, Iris,’ Reginald said, ‘and most appreciated. But we must be realistic. You and Clive are both nearing retirement age, you cannot look after Rupert forever. And as you will have noticed, his condition has sadly deteriorated since his mother’s passing. It is quite apparent that he now requires professional care. There are specialists at the hospital who are trained to cater for needs such as his, and Rupert will be happier there in the long run.’

  Obviously no discussion was to be entered into, and Iris Watson found herself feeling as sorry for the father as she was for the retarded son. The poor man had been driven to distraction by the death of his wife, they’d all seen it, and now, without the mistress by his side, he simply could not cope with his son’s affliction. It is very sad, Iris thought, very sad indeed.

  Reginald drove Rupert the twenty-two miles to New Norfolk in his recently acquired Model T Ford. Even he had realised that the ostentation of the Rolls Royce could be perceived as tasteless in wartime. He chatted pleasantly to his son as he drove and Rupert appeared relaxed, twitching a little as was his custom, but nodding and saying ‘Yes, Father’ whenever it was expected of him.

  Rupert wasn’t actually absorbing what his father was saying: it was something about a ‘holiday’, but he didn’t really know what that meant. He was thoroughly enjoying the outing, however. It was a long time since he’d been taken for a drive and he loved being in a motor car. The sights and the sounds and the smells of the passing countryside enthralled him, but he remembered to keep glancing at his father and nodding now and then. He must not make Father cross.

  Set in the beautiful rural surrounds of the Derwent Valley, the hospital precinct covered an area of approximately three hundred acres. The buildings were magnificent models of colonial Georgian architecture, some in the Palladian barrack style, with verandahs surrounding a huge central courtyard. Reginald, always an admirer of fine architecture, had been most impressed several days earlier when he’d visited the place to fill out the registration forms.

  Now, the two of them stood in the reception hall, the suitcase Iris had packed for Rupert having been taken away by an attendant. Rupert’s attention was captured by the flower arrangement on the nearby sideboard. He turned away to gently stroke the buttery surface of a lily while Reginald chatted to Sister Cartwright, the pleasant middle-aged Englishwoman who personally supervised the hospital wing in which Rupert was to be housed.

  Eunice Cartwright was large, strongly-built and obviously capable of managing the more troublesome patients. No doubt a mandatory prerequisite for a nurse in a lunatic asylum, Reginald thought.

  ‘You have been informed that he is not violent, I take it?’ Although unswayed from his purpose, Reginald felt the need to ensure that Rupert would not be housed with the more dangerous cases.

  ‘Oh yes indeed, Mr Stanford, I have the full history you submitted to administration when Rupert was registered.’ Eunice tapped the folder tucked under her arm. ‘You may rest assured that your son will receive the particular care and attention a case such as his demands.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I was informed he would be with others of similar intellectual impairment rather than . . .’ Reginald broke off. He didn’t quite know how to finish the sentence and he was beginning to feel most uncomfortable. Images of his mother and his wife had suddenly flashed alarmingly in his brain. What would Mathilda and Evelyn say if they could see him leaving Rupert here? He wanted desperately to get out of the place.

  ‘Of course, Mr Stanford,’ Eunice said understandingly, ‘have no fear, Rupert will be in a special wing with others like himself.’ She could see the man was agitated, but then most people were when committing a family member. ‘Would you care for the guided tour? I would be most happy to show you around Rupert’s new home.’

  ‘No, no,’ Reginald said hastily, ‘I had a look about on my visit several days ago,’ it was a lie, he hadn’t, ‘and I have a pressing business engagement in the city.’

  ‘Yes sir, I understand.’ He’s feeling guilty, she thought, they always do, and he’s recently lost his wife, poor fellow. ‘Well then,’ she turned to Rupert with a hearty mixture of professionalism and motherliness, ‘I suppose it’s time to say cheerio, Rupert?’ But Rupert, engrossed in his lily, made no response as he continued to stroke its softness.

  ‘Sister Cartwright spoke to you, Rupert,’ Reginald said sharply.

  Rupert’s head jerked up and he turned, face twitching, hands starting to flap a little. He looked at his father and then at the nurse, unsure what was expected of him.

  ‘Time to say cheerio, Rupert.’ Eunice smiled encouragingly.

  Cheerio wasn’t a word Rupert was particularly accustomed to, but he obliged anyway; the lady seemed very nice.

  ‘Cheerio,’ he said, and he waved goodbye. He was a little surprised when she didn’t go anywhere.

  ‘You will be staying here with Sister Cartwright,’ Reginald explained brusquely. He had to get out; he couldn’t
stand it a minute longer. ‘And I will come and visit you, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Rupert didn’t understand at all, but he would do anything rather than upset his father.

  ‘Goodbye, Rupert.’ Reginald extended his hand. He couldn’t bring himself to embrace his son for fear the boy would cling to him.

  ‘Goodbye, Father.’ Rupert shook his father’s hand man-to-man, knowing it was expected of him, and then he waited to see what would happen next.

  ‘Good day to you, Sister Cartwright.’ Reginald tipped his hat.

  ‘Good day, Mr Stanford. I look forward to seeing you when you next visit.’ She doubted he would visit at all. Eunice was reassessing her sympathy for the man. The son was frightened of the father, and the father couldn’t stand the son. She did not pass judgement – she understood the phenomenon, having witnessed it on many an occasion – but she no longer felt sorry for Reginald Stanford. ‘Come along, Rupert.’

  She reached out her hand and Rupert took it immediately. He enjoyed holding hands. But he was a little bewildered. Come along where? he wondered.

  ‘I’ll show you the garden,’ she said, ‘even though it’s winter we have some very pretty flowers.’

  Instantly intrigued, Rupert allowed himself to be led off. ‘I like flowers,’ he said.

  Reginald walked out into the bitterly chill winter day exhaling a huge puff of steam with his sigh of relief.

  Caitie O’Callaghan was saddened to hear of Evelyn Stanford’s death: she’d very much liked the woman upon their one meeting. She wondered if the family had informed Hugh of his mother’s passing. Surely not. She made no mention of it in her own letters. There was enough death to contend with at Gallipoli. They all knew it now. Families lived in constant fear of any telegram, or an envelope bearing the military insignia, and when the latest casualty lists were posted up outside the GPO and the Mercury offices, there was all too often a cry from amongst the crowd gathered as some unfortunate learned of the news they dreaded.

  Not wishing to intrude upon the grieving household, Caitie waited a full month after Evelyn’s death before calling in to see Rupert on a Saturday morning. She wasn’t sure if she would be welcome, given the cool reception she’d received from Reginald Stanford upon her initial visit, but she felt it only proper she should offer her condolences and she wanted to make sure Rupert was all right. She also considered it essential she find out, for the purposes of her own correspondence, whether or not Hugh was aware of the news.

  ‘Miss O’Callaghan.’ Reginald entered the small front drawing room where Caitie stood waiting by the windows. He’d been irritated when Clive had told him Iris had invited the girl to wait in the drawing room rather than the main hall. At least she has not taken the liberty of seating herself, he thought. ‘What can I do for you?’

  The reception she was being offered was as cool as it had been the first time, and again Caitie wondered why.

  ‘I was very saddened to hear the news of your wife’s passing, Mr Stanford, and I wished to offer my condolences.’

  ‘Most kind.’ Surely a note would have sufficed, Reginald thought.

  ‘I also wish to offer my deepest sympathy to Rupert. I know his mother meant the world to him. He must be shockingly stricken by her loss.’

  ‘He is. We all are.’

  ‘Of course.’ Caitie refused to be cowed by the brusqueness of the man’s manner, which was bordering on rude. ‘May I see Rupert, sir? That is of course, if he is receiving visitors.’

  ‘I fear that won’t be possible, Miss O’Callaghan. Rupert is no longer here.’

  ‘No longer here?’ she echoed dumbly, aware that she sounded a little stupid, but wondering where else he could possibly be.

  ‘Rupert was so deeply traumatised by his mother’s death that he suffered a severe relapse,’ Reginald explained. ‘It has been necessary to have him hospitalised at New Norfolk.’

  ‘New Norfolk? You mean the Hospital for the Insane?’

  ‘Sadly, yes. His condition has deteriorated immeasurably.’

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ Caitie was shocked, ‘oh my goodness, that is sad news indeed.’

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Very, very sad. I thank you for your obvious concern.’ The girl barely knows Rupert, he thought with disdain, how dare she pretend such intimacy with the family.

  There was a light tap at the drawing-room door, which was ajar, and he turned to discover that Iris Watson had popped her head in.

  ‘Shall I serve morning tea, sir?’

  Reginald was about to say no, but Caitie got in first.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Stanford,’ she said charmingly, as if the offer had come directly from him, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t stay.’

  The cheek of the girl.

  The housekeeper left and Caitie decided there was no point in continuing with any further niceties. The man obviously did not like her, so she might as well get straight to the point.

  ‘Does Hugh know about his mother and his brother, Mr Stanford?’

  ‘What the deuce business is that of yours, girl?’ Reginald snapped. The audacity!

  ‘I correspond with Hugh, sir. It would be an advantage to know which topics should be avoided.’

  Damnation, he thought, of course they correspond. Why hadn’t that simple possibility occurred to him? He’d been thinking out-of-sight-out-of-mind and hoping Hugh would forget the O’Callaghan girl while he was serving overseas.

  ‘My son knows about neither his mother nor his brother, Miss O’Callaghan,’ he said stiffly, ‘I thought it best not to burden him.’

  ‘On that subject at least we are in agreement, sir. I too have no intention of adding to his burdens. I bid you good day.’

  ‘Good day, Miss O’Callaghan.’ He opened the drawing-room door wide for her.

  Instead of passing him by, she halted and looked him directly in the eyes. ‘Why is it you do not like me, Mr Stanford?’

  He had to admit she had guts. But then all the O’Callaghan girls had guts.

  ‘It’s nothing personal, my dear. I don’t actually dislike you at all. In fact I rather admire you. But I sense you have designs upon my son, and you are simply not good enough. I certainly could not allow you to marry him. I feel it only fair that I should warn you of this in case your inclinations are currently trained in the direction of matrimony.’

  ‘I see. Thank you for your honesty.’

  Caitie swept past him and out into the hall, her head held high, but she felt decidedly rattled. Was Reginald Stanford spiteful enough to disinherit his son if Hugh chose a girl who did not meet with his approval? She had the distinct feeling that he was. If such was the case, then she must bow out rather than ruin Hugh’s life. But she would not think about that now. His father’s stand against her would be another in a burgeoning list of subjects that she would avoid in her letters to Hugh.

  In the meantime, she would catch the ferry up the Derwent to New Norfolk at the first opportunity and visit Rupert. Whatever his condition, she would not desert him as his father clearly had.

  *

  Three months of trench warfare on the hills and ridges of Gallipoli Peninsular had resulted in a daily existence that now seemed hideously normal to the hardened troops. The stench of excrement and blood and their own foul body odour seemed normal. Flies swarming over food, the continual itch from body lice, dysentery and red-raw backsides all seemed normal. Even death seemed normal as they ate their maggoty meals beside rotting corpses.

  Gone now were the fresh-faced young men eager for adventure; in their place were soldiers toughened by the horror of war. Some had gone under, succumbing to shell-shock, others had managed to disguise their shattered nerves and fight on, but most ANZACs, as the troops of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps had become known, had adapted to the fearsome reality of battle, dealing out death with ferocity and accepting their own fate with a sense of the inevitable.

  The arrival of the mail, which continued miraculously to find its
way through the hellfire, was without doubt the highlight of life in the trenches. Men treasured the link with home. Huddling in the filth, they read the precious words, hearing the voices and seeing the faces of families and sweethearts, and in the days that followed they scribbled feverish replies with stubby pencils.

  The mail was also something to be shared. News from home was read out loud, family pictures passed around, wives and sweethearts shown off and dutifully admired. Those who’d missed out on a mail delivery didn’t feel altogether excluded, as they shared in the letters of others. The arrival of the mail raised everyone’s morale.

  ‘Listen to this,’ Hugh said to the Balfour boys. Hugh Stanford had been promoted to lance-corporal by his Company Commander and placed in charge of a section of seven men, including Wes and Harry Balfour. Along with other troops of the 12th Battalion they were holed up in a reserve trench awaiting orders. The stink from the nearby latrines was particularly nauseating, but Wes was still managing to scoff down his bully beef, digging it out of the tin with his knife while flapping a hand ineffectually at the swarm of flies surrounding him. Harry had just read out a letter from their big brother Norm, and it was now Hugh’s turn to share some of his news from Caitie. Having read all three of her letters (they had arrived at once, as they so often did), he was naturally selective in his choice. Wes and Harry were both very fond of their cousin Rupert.

  ‘I called in to see Rupert again on Saturday. As before, and upon his insistence, we spent the entire afternoon playing games. There we were sprawled out on the floor eating biscuits and playing endless draughts and snakes and ladders. I must confess that I have developed a routine. I always let him win at draughts in order to hear that terrible laugh of his . . .’

  Wes and Harry grinned. They found Rupert’s laugh so funny themselves it had been a regular habit of theirs to set him off, which had never been difficult. Wes opened up his mouth to give a donkey bray in imitation of Rupert, but quickly choked on a fly. Hugh waited until he’d swallowed it before continuing.